


Life, Returned

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert lives, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Post-Seine, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: Years ago, enquiries had been made into the past of Champmathieu. No one in Faverolles had remembered Jean Valjean. It was just as well, he thought. No one here would recognise him, not any more than he would recognise them. 
 Valjean and Javert go on a journey.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_End_of_the_Chase](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_End_of_the_Chase/gifts).



> With grateful thanks to Jehane for beta-reading.

The thought had come with spring, softly, unobtrusively, like a seedling on the wind. At any other time it might not have taken root. Years had passed by without such a thought ever making itself known. Memories had grown blurred, new ones imprinting themselves on his mind and heart. Toulon was darkness; Cosette was light. Each had in their own way taken possession of him, and what had come before seemed now like a distant dream, an old song, something that had happened to another man in another life. 

And yet a new life had begun. Cosette had left his care; radiant, she walked the halls of her new home in the Marais, cradling her growing belly with a smile that still reminded him of a child in Montfermeil clutching her new doll. A new life for her -- and a new life for him, Jean Valjean, a man in his sixties and in love at last. 

Yes, in love, as hard as he had found it to admit, even to himself. It was a strange and frightening thing, more frightening than Javert himself had ever been during all those years when he was but a wraith from Valjean's past, a wolfhound snapping at his heels. For all that Toulon had been a looming shadow of misery and Javert its herald, it was a misery he had known how to bear, and a herald he had understood. But how to understand a living man, who had raged and cursed and called him a saint -- a living man who eventually, after months of tentative friendship, had confessed his feelings in the same dejected tones with which he once had asked for his resignation? How to accept these feelings with grace, how to accept the tenderness which they had stirred within him, to the point where he could no longer deny the way his own heart was responding? 

He had prayed, and prayed again; he had reached for Javert's hand and held it; he had rested his head against the shoulder of his new friend and old enemy. He had understood that Javert, too, was afraid. 

In the end he had made the leap of faith, trusting his heart to guide him. And now, he had this: early mornings, awakening with an arm about his waist and a warm breath against his neck; days spent together or apart, days that would yet more often than not end in a shared evening, curled up next to the fire, and a shared night lit by a different fire altogether. 

Such was the miracle of this new life, full of delights hitherto unknown. And as the days had turned longer, the sun bathing Paris in rays of early spring, the thought had come to him and stayed, growing firmer every day, until he could not push it away. 

 

*

 

While he would be hard pressed to say he honestly enjoyed his daugher's parties, Valjean could not deny that Cosette was in her element. It was no hardship to sacrifice some hours of an evening for the sake of seeing her so joyful, not least since he was aware that she was making up for years of solitude. 

Nevertheless, he appreciated the moment when it was time for him and Javert to take their leave. Marius had arranged for the coach to take them home, and Cosette had followed them out to say goodbye. 

"Thank you both so much for coming," she said, reaching up to kiss his cheek. "Let me know when you decide to go."

From the house they could still hear the sounds of lively chatter and clinking of glasses; Gillenormand had ordered more champagne from the cellar. As they climbed into the carriage, he heard Javert heave a sigh of relief. 

They were silent for a while, the carriage rattling along darkening streets. At last Javert spoke. "What did she mean by that -- go where?" 

There was a gruffness to his voice, revealing an underlying hint of worry. Valjean reached for his hand and clasped it. 

"I told her I have been thinking of making a journey," he said. "I would tell you too, of course. But she brought it up with me how one day she might like to visit Montreuil-sur-Mer, to see where Fantine was born and died. It has been weighing on her mind, now that she's going to be a mother herself."

Javert's hand twitched in his grasp. "Is that where you are going?"

"No," said Valjean, noting the growing discomfort in Javert's voice. "Not now, at any rate. It would only be for her sake, and she shouldn't travel that far in her condition. No. I..." He glanced out the window, away from Javert's gaze. "I thought perhaps I would go back to see Faverolles." 

"Ah." 

Javert cleared his throat. "I know you made inquiries, back then," he said stiffly. "It was one of the reasons why my suspicions were roused. But as you know, there was no trace of..." 

His voice faltered, and Valjean pressed his hand again. 

"I know," he said, and for a moment the old memory passed through him anew, the awareness of being alone in the world, everyone who had cared for him lost forever. He cleared his throat in turn. "I'm not sure where the thought came from. Perhaps it is simply a matter of sentimentality. An old man's whim, if you will." 

Javert's hand left his grasp and landed on his knee. "I will go with you." 

"You do not have to." Even as he said it, he knew objections were futile. "What about your work?"

"I am sure I can get a few days of leave," Javert said. "It is no trouble. I should hate for you to go alone -- unless that is your wish, of course."

This last was said almost gruffly. His hand on Valjean's knee lifted for a moment, then resettled. He met Valjean's eyes, a determined set to his mouth. 

It was that same look he had seen before, all those years ago in a hospital in Montreuil-sur-Mer, although it had caused him to feel quite differently then. _I will never leave you alone,_ that look said. _Where you go, I will be._

Affection swelled in his heart. He took Javert's hand once more and raised it to his lips. 

 

*

 

One week later, they were sitting in a stagecoach making its way up north. The decision made, he had decided to go sooner rather than later, so as not to be away when the child came. Marius had offered to lend him the Gillenormand household's carriage, but Valjean had declined; the family needed the carriage for themselves, especially Cosette, who could not walk far in her condition. Secretly, he was also glad of the anonymity the coach offered. Sharing his journey with Javert, with a driver to watch over them, would have felt both private and not private at all, as if they were under surveillance. Here on the coach, they were but two ordinary travellers, with no one paying them attention. 

Their fellow passengers from Paris were a family -- a man and woman with a peaky-looking infant -- and two old women who spent the better part of two hours knitting and talking excitedly about the rumours of new cholera outbreaks. Javert was looking more and more annoyed, until he finally pulled his hat down his forehead and dozed off. Valjean sat next to him at the window seat, watching Paris grow smaller and smaller in the distance. 

He was leaving the city which held most of the memories dear to him, seeking out the birthplace of which he held barely any memories at all. Cosette, and then Javert, had asked him what he hoped to find there, and he had not been able to give any reasonable answer. Not his family -- those hopes had been lost years ago. Only a miracle could bring them back to him, and he considered that he had experienced more than his fair share of miracles. 

What was he looking for? A part of himself, left behind long ago?

The small child stirred in its mother's arms. Valjean smiled at it, and was rewarded with a happy gurgle. The mother gave him a swift smile in turn, rocking the child gently and whispering in hushed tones. Both she and the man were dressed in simple clothing, a single basket at their feet holding their belongings. The man was staring out the window, a distant look in his eyes, a perpetual frown between his brows. 

They got off the coach in Lagny-le-Sec, and that was the last he saw of them. He only hoped they would find the crumpled ten-franc note slipped quietly into their basket. 

 

*

 

In Gondreville the coach stopped for the night at an inn. Valjean and Javert managed to get a room for themselves, where they retreated after a simple supper of soup and bread. 

He could feel Javert's eyes on his back as they climbed the stairs. They had not spoken much during the ride, nor during supper. Travelling like this together, surrounded by strangers, was a new experience. To anyone else they would appear unremarkable; they could have been any ageing pair of friends enjoying a journey together. Nobody knew their story, the roads they had taken to come here, the scars on his own back, the leather stock Javert was still wearing out of old habit. 

The room held a large bed and water for them both. They undressed and washed, said their evening prayers, and slipped into bed. Javert's arm around his waist was firm but undemanding; by unspoken agreement they went quietly to sleep. 

 

*

 

The next day they reached the town of Villers-Cotterêts, which was as close to Faverolles as the coach would stop. There was a stable where one could rent a carriage with a driver; the stablemaster estimated it would take them another few hours to reach Faverolles. 

"We should have brought a book," Javert remarked after about half an hour in the carriage. "To pass the time, as it were."

The landscape was sloping, green with forests and fields. The carriage was narrow and they sat across from one another, windows on both sides. "The view is not to your liking?" Valjean asked. 

Javert gave him a long look, followed by a wry smile. "Indeed it is, but the journey is a not short one. We could have made progress on your Englishman, Monsieur Swift. Though the travels he describes would make this one seem dull in comparison." 

"I fear you are finding it dull already," Valjean said. His thoughts had been moody for most of the day and the one before; he could not free himself from the notion that he was wasting not only his own time, but Javert's as well. "I'm not certain if this was a good idea to begin with. I may have dragged you out here for no reason at all."

A look of dismay passed over Javert's face, followed by a frown. "Nonsense. You wished to do it, that's the only reason needed. How often do you undertake any pleasant activities solely for yourself? And when before did you ever travel for leisure?"

The answer to that was never, as they both knew. Javert paused for a moment; his stern eyes softened. "You do me a service by allowing me to come with you. If you are feeling selfish, then rest assured that any selfishness of yours could only bring me joy." 

It was not the first time Javert had expressed similar emotions, and Valjean knew he meant it. Still, he thought Javert had not considered all the possible prospects where their desires might be at odds. If ever he and Cosette were to undertake the journey to Montreuil-sur-Mer, he could not ask Javert to come along -- neither for Javert's sake nor his own. The thought pained him, but then again the thought of returning to that town pained him more. If Cosette had not asked him directly, he would never have considered it. The memories were too many and too raw. 

But Faverolles? He barely remembered it, except as fragmentary images. A rough table with a bowl of soup in the middle. Winter and snow, the raw air seeping in through cracks in the walls. And also, sometimes, the sun on his back, the wind in the branches, his sister's hand on his cheek. 

Perhaps none of these were real memories, only conjecture. Either way, the journey could do no harm, save to remind him of what he had lost and gained. Selfish or not, he could not help but be glad to have Javert at his side. 

 

*

 

They reached Faverolles in the middle of the afternoon. As they stepped out of the carriage, he was struck by how much it looked like any other village: a small street, a few shops, an inn, a large well in front of the inn. There was a bakery across the street; it did not look identical to the one which had once proved fateful, but then again, his memory might be distorted. 

They found lodgings at the inn for themselves as well as the driver, who took the horse and carriage to the stable in the back. The innkeeper asked no questions about who they were or what they were doing here; Javert's intimidating countenance had a way of warding off curiosity. 

At any rate, it wouldn't have mattered. Years ago, enquiries had been made into the past of Champmathieu. No one in Faverolles had remembered Jean Valjean. It was just as well, he thought. No one here would recognise him, not any more than he would recognise them. 

Their luggage was brought to their room and they sat down for a meal of bread, wine and cheese. Javert watched him intently as they ate, as if waiting for some kind of reaction or emotional outburst. Valjean had no idea what to tell him; he was still not feeling much at all. 

"I cannot remember this place," he said at last, keeping his voice soft. "There must have been an inn, but I never had reason to go there."

Javert refilled their glasses. "Did you not go drinking?" 

"I can't imagine that I would have. There was never time or money." A thought came to him. "Did _you_ ever go drinking?"

"I?" Javert looked perplexed at the question. It struck Valjean that they had rarely, if ever, talked about their youth. "Well, I suppose, with the other guards sometimes." He grimaced. "They found me dull company, and the feeling was mutual." 

Valjean tried to imagine it: Javert as a young man, rigid and serious, surrounded in one of Toulon's taverns by a group of rowdy lads, mouth thinning in distaste at the drunken displays. He felt a smile tug at his lips and hid it with a sip of wine. 

 

*

 

Afterwards, they went for a walk, taking a small path that led away from the village, towards the forest. They passed small huts built from wood and stone, and despite himself he could not resist looking at each and every rickety shack for any signs of his own past, any mark that could tell him that this was the place he himself had lived. It was futile, of course; one shack resembled the other. Jeanne, his sister, had disappeared from the place years ago, and the shack had most likely been torn down afterwards. 

And yet, walking along the path where it wound between the fields, he felt at peace. Birds were gradually ceasing their song; the evening sky was blue and purple. As a young man, he would have walked along this path, or one like it, weary after a long day's work, with no thought in his head save that of a hot meal and a bed -- an innocent falsely believing his existence was as miserable as it could be. 

Here, now, he found it in himself to pity that foolish boy. Here, now, he knew to savour the clean air, the fresh scent of grass and earth, the blessing of being able to walk in freedom with his friend at his side. 

The path reached the edge of the forest. Some of the taller trees had ropes hanging from their lower branches, and at this sight a memory finally stirred within him. "It's for the pruners," he told Javert as they left the path to have a closer look. "They most likely haven't finished yet, so they left the ropes for tomorrow." He ran his fingers along the rope, feeling the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I wonder if I could still climb one -- it has been years." 

"Why not try?" Javert said in a tone that made Valjean turn towards him. The intent look was back in his eyes; he shifted a little, clearing his throat. "There is no one here to witness our trespassing." 

The very notion of Javert encouraging mischief was enough to make him smile for real. "I suppose we are already trespassing on the property of whomever owns this forest." 

"Probably," Javert agreed. He nodded towards the rope. "Should I take your coat?" 

It was nonsensical, of course, but their whole journey here was nonsensical to begin with. He pulled off his coat and handed it to Javert, and then took the rope in both hands. 

As soon as he did, something clicked into place. He kicked off the ground, and his legs went up as if on their own accord, twining around the rope in a footlock, letting him kick off again against the rope as he pulled himself further. Exhilaration rushed through his body, the joy of letting go of all thought. He kicked again, and pulled again, letting his muscles lead the way until suddenly the sturdy branch was within his grasp. He hauled himself up and straddled it, and only then did he look down. 

Javert was on the ground, some fifteen feet below, head tilted back. His mouth was half-open and his eyes wide; a flush had spread on his cheeks. 

Valjean knew that look. He felt himself flush in turn. Not knowing what to say, he glanced around at the trunk, noting the fresh sores where smaller branches had been cut off. The crown thickened above him, a soft breeze rustling the leaves. A pair of shearing scissors had been placed in the fork of two branches, the pruner obviously trusting them to still be there the next day. 

He looked down again, where Javert was staring up at him. "I'm coming down now," he said. The ground suddenly seemed far away; for a moment he felt like a cat caught unawares by the altitude. He took a deep breath and, gripping the rope again, slid down carefully, using his feet to temper the speed. It occurred to him that his father had died falling from a tree. 

At last he reached the ground, where Javert waited with his coat. As Valjean shrugged it on, their eyes met. Without a word Javert stepped closer.

"You must teach me how to do that," he muttered, raising a hand to Valjean's cheek. "Or one day you will run from me again, disappearing up a tree, and I will not be able to follow." 

Valjean shivered at the playful, low tone in Javert's voice. "I wouldn't run," he said. "Never again."

From where they were standing they were still in view of the path, at least partially. He took a step back, into the shadow. Javert followed, as relentless in love as he had been in pursuit, pushing Valjean against the tree, putting his hands on each of his shoulders, and covering his mouth in a greedy kiss. 

"Did anyone ever do this to you?" he breathed harshly against Valjean's mouth when they broke apart for a moment. "Back when you were a young man, here in this village. Did anyone ever kiss you like this?"

"You know they didn't," Valjean said, tilting his head back. "You know there was no one before you." 

Javert groaned and kissed him again, teeth scraping over Valjean's skin as he mouthed at his neck. "Tell me again," he demanded, pushing a thigh between Valjean's legs. "Tell me." 

"No one," Valjean whispered, closing his eyes as another shiver went through his body. "You know that. There's only been you."

It was true. Wasn't it? If ever there had been anyone to steal glances at him, to give him secret smiles, to touch him furtively, they were gone from his memories and so might as well not have existed at all. But he could not have forgotten such a thing, he thought hazily as Javert stole a hand between them, stroking him through the fabric of his trousers; no, if anyone had ever touched him like this, he would have remembered, or at least his body would have remembered, just as surely as it still knew how to climb a rope, just as surely as it now responded to Javert's touch. 

Javert let out another groan, then backed off. His cheeks were red, his nostrils flaring; his hair was half in disarray, and Valjean raised a hand to stroke it. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind Javert's ear, then ran his thumb along Javert's whiskers, causing Javert to shudder and his eyelids to flutter. "Forgive me," he muttered hoarsely. "I get carried away at times."

"There is nothing to forgive," said Valjean, not for the first time. "Come..." 

Taking Javert's hand, he led him to the other side of the tree, where they were completely out of sight from the path. The sun was setting, too, and the shadows growing longer. He took off his coat again and spread it on the ground. 

Javert swallowed visibly. "Are you sure?" 

"We could go back to the inn," Valjean said. He could not resist a meaningful glance towards Javert's groin, where a bulge was clearly visible. "If you don't mind waiting."

Javert let out something that was half-laugh, half-growl. He shrugged off his own coat and spread it next to Valjean's, then lay down, pulling Valjean with him until they were lying on their sides, facing each other. 

"You never cease to amaze me," Javert murmured, tracing a finger along Valjean's lower lip. "If you hadn't just told me otherwise, I should have suspected that this was not your first time lying with someone out in the open. How scandalous." 

"Very scandalous," Valjean agreed. He was smiling despite himself, pleased with his own daring and with Javert's obvious delight. "Do not make me regret it." 

Javert's mouth found his again, hot and hungry. Valjean responded, weaving his hand in Javert's hair, letting Javert roll him over onto his back. He was fully hard now, his heart beating hard and quick; he arched up against Javert's hand where it palmed his groin. 

"Let's be quick about it," he gasped, fumbling to open Javert's trousers. "Or we'll catch cold." 

A choked laugh was his only reply, Javert pressing kisses to his neck as he worked his hand into Valjean's trousers to pull him out. Soon they were thrusting against each other, crudely, clumsily, flesh against slippery flesh, mouth against eager mouth. "Please," Javert was moaning in his ear, rocking his hips ever more frantically. "Please, please, Valjean..."

"Yes. Yes." He had one leg hooked around Javert's waist, forgetting everything but the pressure, the slide, Javert's mouth and hands and heavy weight. "Yes," he said, tipping his head back to look up through the branches where the first stars were glimmering on the dark blue sky. "Yes," he said again, and shuddered, letting the waves of release roll through him, spending himself against Javert, who shuddered in turn, and groaned, and collapsed on top of him. 

They lay entangled for a few moments, their breath coming heavily. Javert fumbled for his handkerchief and wiped them both free of the worst of the mess, then settled against him anew. Valjean ran a hand through Javert's hair, feeling lazy and fond. The early night air was quiet and chill; they should head back to the inn before it got too dark, he thought. But not yet. 

"Scandalous, indeed," Javert muttered at last, sounding thoroughly satisfied. "This alone was worth the journey."

Valjean had to huff a laugh at that, which seemed to please Javert even more. He brushed his lips to Javert's temple. "I did not drag you here for nothing, then."

"Surely we have already experienced the best this place has to offer," Javert said. Then his voice grew serious. "But we will stay here as long as you wish. It is your home, after all."

"My home," Valjean said. He thought of the small shacks, the long days of labour in the trees, the shards of memories still lodged within his mind. "I don't think it is, not any more. But I'm glad we came." He craned his neck to kiss Javert's smile. "I have no home that isn't yours as well."

 

*

 

"I am so glad you went, Father," Cosette said a few days after. "I only wish I could have gone with you. I'd like to see where you lived." 

"Some day," Valjean said. They strolled slowly through the garden; she was leaning on his arm. "When your child is big and healthy. We will go there together -- we will go anywhere you like." 

How strange it was, being able to make such promises. 

They sat down on a bench. She took his hand and held it between hers. "I will hold you to that promise, just so you know. Now tell me more about your journey. Did you find what you were looking for?"

Valjean smiled. He reached out with his free hand to touch her cheek, marvelling at her love, this gift that life had given him, thinking of those vague memories he had carried with him for so long. New memories had joined them: the night sky seen through the branches, the pleasant weight of Javert in his arms. "I believe so," he said.

**Author's Note:**

> The technique Valjean uses to climb the rope is known as footlocking; an example vid can be found [here](https://youtu.be/px0SVd2nVOI).


End file.
